Flashover
by BattleCryBlue
Summary: Tony Stark is a wealthy socialite dabbling in city politics. Steve Rogers is a FDNY Firefighter with a dark past. When Tony is targeted by an arsonist with a grudge, Steve tries to save him... but in the end, they just might need to save each other. Warnings: Alternate Universe, no powers, Firefighter!Steve, Steve!whump, Steve/Tony slash.
1. Sparks

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**Flashover**

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_by BattleCryBlue_

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**Disclaimer:** I don't own shit.

**Warnings** for obviously extreme **AU**, NO superpowers, Tony/Steve pairings, and possibly a few others I haven't come up with yet. Further warnings for Steve!Whump, slash, side-character death, disturbing subject matter, etc.

**Extreme** **warnings** for a crass, sadistic, cuss-like-a-sailor kind of author who enjoys delving into all the darkest parts of human nature. Said author is also relatively immune to flames and may or may not believe in the probability of happy endings. Consider yourselves informed.

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flash·o·ver

_ n._

The temperature point at which the heat in an area or region is high enough to ignite all flammable material simultaneously.

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**C1: Sparks**

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Dead silence.

You could have heard a pin drop in that big room, full of New York City's richest and most powerful socialites and businessmen, debutantes and politicians, reporters and paparazzi... Firefighters and cops. The same civil servants who had just heard Tony Stark present a proposition to cut funding to their departments.

Reed Richards, CEO of FF Inc. and owner of the Baxter Building in which they all stood now, felt his face flush in embarrassment for the brashly grinning billionaire. Tony stood his ground at that podium as the cameras flashed, waiting for some response to the bomb he had just dropped on them all.

His proposition included massive budget cuts to police departments, fire departments, and rescue squads the city over. He'd said some crazy things in his time, usually without bothering to consult the many available friends in his life who would gladly encourage him to... _not_ say them, but this was anew kind of brash. For a man who had just announced his plans to become involved in city government, this really didn't seem like the wisest of career moves.

Reed adjusted his collar and made a move to step forward. He had to get Tony off that stage before the outcry began... or worse, before the billionaire said something worse.

Before he could take a step, the crowd erupted.

Into applause.

Incredulous, Reed searched the faces around him for some of the rage or indignation that he felt—and _he_ wasn't even on the city payroll.

But he'd been wrong, as he so often seemed to be when he put his faith into the goodness of human hearts. Tony had proposed an answer to some critical city budget gaps, and those removed from the mean streets of New York by their money and fame couldn't possibly understand the implications of the cuts the socialite had proposed... to the men and women who kept those same streets safe, and fought night and day to do so.

Horrified by what he was witnessing, Reed looked up and met the eyes of Fire Chief Fury, head of Firehouse Nine, only blocks away. The big African American man's face was set, stony and grim, but he betrayed nothing.

Reed searched the room for others like Fury—the Police Chief, Henry Gyrich, Ambulance Chief Bruce Banner... scattered across the room, every Police Officer and member of Fire and Rescue he'd come to know over the years stood like statues, still in a sea of cheering billionaires.

Every one of them looked like they'd just been punched in the gut.

These people... these stupid, smiling, laughing people... they had no idea what they were doing. No idea what it would do to the entire city if they passed this proposition into reality. With their glittering necklaces and expensive suits, they could not possibly comprehend hardship or fear or pain or poverty. The same things that afflicted their city's citizens could not touch them.

Money was power.

And the power, Reed realized as he watched them with a sinking heart, was about to be stripped away from the men and women who really deserved it.

"This is bad," a soft, familiar voice at his side was accompanied by a warm hand on his back.

Reed Richards nodded and slipped his own hand over that of his wife's, Susan. Her beautiful features were marred by pained sympathy, her blond brows drawn together in worry.

"There's a dark time coming for our city," he murmured to her as he watched the Mayor congratulate Stark at the podium and pose for the cameras. "A very dark time indeed."

**.**

Eight blocks away, Captain Steve Rogers sat on his thin bunk at Station Nine, hands clasped and elbows on his knees.

On the ledge by his shoulder a small black radio crackled with the sounds of cheering people... the citizens of New York applauding a bill that would effectively cripple the departments that struggled daily to keep them safe.

Shoulders hunching, Steve let out a long breath and ran a big hand down over his eyes, dark with the shadows of sleeplessness and stress. Eighteen hours into his shift, he was exhausted—but knowing the kinds of critical decisions being made at the Baxter Building had kept him from sleep. He opted instead to sit with his radio, listening to the live press coverage as various city politicians used the open forum to make their opinions known, along with their plans to mend a widening budget deficit.

True to form, Tony Stark—the real star of the event—had closed the night off with a bang. Specifically, a radical budget proposition that would save the city billions of dollars every year. He proposed that city legislature consider adopting the new budget immediately.

It all sounded good on paper—just like the words rolling off the billionaire's silver tongue. It all sounded very, very good.

But the fact remained that all across the city firefighters, EMT's and law enforcement officers were sitting by their radios and televisions just like Steve. They were waiting for the ax to fall; hoping to hear Stark get booed off that stage.

Wouldn't that have been a relief.

Standing, his exhaustion settling down into his bones along with a gut-deep disappointment in the city he loved, Steve shook out his shoulders and headed for the door. He'd entered the long, dark hall filled with small compartments and cots over an hour ago, and it had been empty. He knew where his crew was.

Out in the mess hall, his shift stood in the dimmed lights, gathered around the old TV mounted high on the wall in one corner. They were muttering quietly among themselves, worry and anger drifting through their tones.

Lieutenant Clint Barton, Steve's second-in-command on rescue squad, turned as the door opened. Steve knew he hadn't made a sound, but Clint had always had a sixth sense like that. They'd been friends for years—knew each other better than anyone—and as their eyes met, Steve knew this was going to have a profound effect on each and every one of them.

"I guessed you weren't asleep. You heard?" Clint asked unnecessarily as the blond joined him, watching the TV with solemn eyes as a smiling reporter rattled off her observations of what might easily be called the event of the year.

Steve nodded tiredly, feeling hollow. He'd expected anger, or confusion or disappointment... but he felt none of those things. Just empty.

When you'd devoted your life to something as completely as he had... sometimes you tended to forget that there were so many outside of your enclosed little world that didn't feel the same. That didn't comprehend your passion or sacrifice; who didn't sympathize with the difficulties of a job where you rolled the dice on human lives every single day... and bet your own life to play the odds.

"Fucking bastard," a voice carried through the heavy stillness, and no-one was surprised that it was Loki was who was the first to voice all that they were thinking. "He sits up in his penthouse and smiles and waves down at the little people... and thinks he can make the rules he'll never have to live by?"

"Simmer down; maybe they won't pass it through," someone dared to suggest, but they didn't sound hopeful.

"Fat chance," Clint sighed. "Look at 'em. They're licking their chops for a quick fix. They're sold."

"Say goodbye to Station Nine," Loki smiled maliciously over at their baby-faced probationary crew member. "You know who's going to be the first one cut when that bullshit hits."

"_Hey_. No-one's getting cut," Clint said with a little more force than necessary, the first, as usual, to stick up for the youngest or newest crew members. "Not yet, anyway. And not without a damn good fight."

Their commentary was interrupted the all-too-familiar emergency tone. The long sound came on over the PA system at almost the same moment that the live news broadcast was interrupted by a jarred camera, screams erupting in place of cheers. The camera fell to the side to show polished dress shoes and tall heels as the crowd began to panic and run for the exits.

The crew never saw the footage. They were already halfway to the garage.

"Truck eighty-four, ambulance two, engine sixty-one," the familiar voice of the station dispatcher, Maria Hill, called out as the crew members headed for their apparatus. "Reports of structure fire at 42nd and Madison."

Hank Pym, filling in for Bruce as he attended the event at the Baxter Building, and his wife Janet were already pulling out in the ambulance, strobe lights lighting up the garage in the darkness.

Steve had his boots kicked off in the safety lane and was pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders as a short, stocky man bristling with thick dark hair and angry energy came storming down the lane between trucks, presumably from the direction of the gym.

Natasha, exuding the same dangerous energy, appeared at Steve's side a moment later, already in gear as she yanked angrily at the strap of her helmet.

"Cap, I swear to god I'm going to take his head off one of these days." The redhead glowered at Logan from across the room as the short man dressed and disappeared onto truck eighty-four.

"Take it up with Coulson," Steve instructed, nonplussed by the raging rivalry between truck and squad's lone female crew member; a conflict usually instigated by Logan. "Keep your head on straight and ignore him."

"He's a fucking sexist," she went on, following him up into the squad truck as if she hadn't heard a word. "If he asks me to make him a sandwich one more time I swear to god—"

"You're going to ignore him, and save the station another lawsuit."

"That wasn't my fault," she insisted.

Steve was saved from further words—repeating the same conversation he seemed to have with Nat every week—by Dane Whitman swinging into the driver's seat.

A larger figure hoisted his considerable frame up into the cab next, the seams of his bunker jacket stretched tight over his powerful form. Steve was generally considered impressively fit, but even he looked small next to the big Nord; the gentle giant of Station Nine.

"Captain," the hulking blond nodded formally as he settled into the seat beside Natasha, taking up his own chair and half of hers. She was small enough that it didn't quite make a difference, so he usually chose to sit beside her to avoid an argument with another seat-mate.

A native Norwegian who had changed his name to Donald Blake upon his arrival in the states, the rest of the station referred to the massive blond as Thor. They'd asked him for his native Nordic name once, but not a soul had been able to pronounce it. No-one but his Half-brother, Loki, who was on Truck with Lt. Coulson and by the standards of most, caused far more trouble than he was worth.

Clint arrived a heartbeat later, looking troubled. He pulled the door closed behind him and smacked the back of Dane's seat to let him know they were all in place. Speaking into his radio, Whitman informed dispatch of their departure, flicked on the strobes and sirens, and revved up the massive diesel engine to pull out onto the quiet streets.

"Cap," Clint leaned in from beside Steve, "This call. It's the Baxter Building."

"Fury," Steve breathed, every nerve suddenly on full alert. "And—"

"Bruce," Natasha finished from across the cab, her eyes wide. She'd transferred three years before from Ambulance squad, and her incognito romance with Bruce was easily the station's worst-kept secret.

Steve met her panicked gaze, but could offer no false words of comfort. They had more respect for one another here than that, and they'd all had to face reality more than once. They didn't run on chances or maybe's. The fact was, what they did was dangerous. There were no guarantees.

And there was nothing worse than someone trying to tell you that it would all be okay... those were the kind of empty sentiments they saved for victims.

The drive was made quick by emergency lights, but it still seemed to take too long. They arrived on scene to a sea of swarming people—both onlookers and attending socialites—all bathed in the flashing reds and blues of an entire fleet of cops cars. Apparently, when the rich and mighty called... the answers came quickly.

Before the engine had even come to a complete stop, Natasha was on the ground, her mask secure as she waited impatiently for Thor to join her. Steve couldn't exactly condemn her impatience—this one had them all on edge, simply on principle. It always seemed so different when their own were involved.

Coulson was the first out of the other truck, finding Steve immediately to formulate a plan. He looked as relieved as Steve felt to see that the flames were licking gently out of three windows on the second story. They could never be one hundred percent sure from first look, but the fire still looked manageable.

"I've got hoses on the windows," Coulson informed his companion without preamble, watching as Logan, Loki, and Luke Charles all piled out of the engine. "Putting the probie on water for this one."

Steve watched as Peter Parker, their probationary and youngest member, pulled a coiled hose out of the engine bay and was nearly knocked on his butt when it fell mostly on top of him.

"Probably a good plan," Steve sighed. "Fury and Bruce may still be up there, but the drill remains the same. Put your guys on attack. Clint and I will head in to evacuate the crowds. Nat and Thor will start sweeping the lobby and second floor."

_Ironic,_ Steve couldn't help but think as he directed his crew members inside and headed into the lobby with Clint. _The same people you're trying to strangle... are the ones who show up to save you._

Begging silent forgiveness for his lapse in faith, Steve took a deep breath and clipped his handheld radio to the canvas loop on the shoulder of his jacket. If he was going to keep doing his job... he needed to keep believing in people. There were others on the force—Logan came instantly to mind—who had long ago abandoned their faith in humanity as a whole. They'd been in a thankless job far too long; been kicked while they were down and spit on for risking their lives. They'd given up caring about the people they served and opted instead to see their work as just that. A job. Nothing more.

Steve couldn't live that way.

As they entered the lobby, fighting against the streams of panicked people in high-heels and white collars, Thor and Natasha made instantly for the stairwells. Clint stopped to argue with Dane about who was going to clear the elevators, and Steve pushed ahead into the massive conference hall the crew had been watching on the television. It seemed surreal to see the stage and lights and tables in person—especially now that the huge room was mostly emptied, half-wrecked by fleeing socialites.

"Bruce," Steve sighed in relief as he spotted their chief EMT across the room, looking tousled in the crowd, but none-the-worse for wear. The brunette quickly made his way to Steve's side.

"What's the situation?" He asked at once, all business even in a tuxedo. "Hank and Janet?"

"Setting up rehab," Steve answered, still scanning the room and trying to assess the situation. Turning partially away for a moment, he clicked onto his radio, knowing without communication that Nat needed to hear from him. "Bruce is here," he informed, "safe and sound."

Natasha didn't reply, but she didn't need to. At least now Steve could be sure her focus was in the right place.

"Fury's working on getting people out; he's safe too," Bruce went on, undoing his silver cufflinks and slipping off his suit jacket. He rolled up his sleeves and dropped the suit jacket on the nearest chair, ready to work. "I'll check the exits on this floor, make sure everyone evacuates safely."

"Thanks, Bruce." Steve clapped him on the shoulder, knowing it wasn't the paramedic's job, but thankful, as usual that Banner was always ready to to do his part. "If you and Fury have evacuation managed, Clint and I will head upstairs. Grab a radio from the truck when you get a chance."

"North and west hallways clear," Thor called over the radio just as Clint and Steve stepped onto the second floor.

"We'll take the east," Clint replied, frowning at the haze of smoke that hung below the ceiling.

"Heading south, then," the Nord replied before the radio fell silent.

"A little weird, isn't it Steve?"

"Fire department, call out!" Steve bellowed into the first room, hazy with smoke but otherwise intact. He paused a moment to listen, and shut the door behind him. They moved on to the next room before he answered his partner. "What's weird?"

Clint opened the next door and repeated the call. The rooms were empty, mostly offices and storerooms, but the smoke was getting thicker as they moved forward.

"It's weird that the building is empty, besides the party going on downstairs. And the kitchen is cooking for five hundred tonight, but the fire isn't coming from there... it's coming out of the second story windows."

"Call out," Steve yelled into an empty boardroom and shut the door. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying... what does this look like? Setting off any bells?"

Clint was right, and it wasn't the first time the thought had entered the captain's mind. The thought was troubling, but in a twisted sort of way... it made perfect sense. What were the odds of an accidental fire starting after that kind of announcement?

"Let's not jump to any conclusions," he muttered, lowering automatically into a semi-crouch as they turned a corner and found the smoke to be nearly impenetrable. "Could be a faulty electrical panel or... something."

"In the Baxter Building?" Clint scoffed, "Reed Richards is a technological genius. I doubt there's a wire in this building that isn't lightyears ahead of anything we've seen. Let's not even talk about outdated electrical panels... this place is made of money."

"Just trying to work through our options," Steve grimaced, knowing he was just going through the motions; playing the good little soldier and suspending disbelief for the sake of protocol. There was a part of him that agreed with Clint... but it wasn't his job to play investigator. Not when they had a job to do.

"Let's leave that to the police," he decided out loud, and he could almost hear Clint rolling his eyes over his shoulder. "Save your breath for clearing rooms."

"Yes mom..." Clint grumbled, but bellowed out a call for civilians into the next office they passed anyway.

They could hear the angry roar of the fire now; the sound alerted them that somewhere nearby the fire had passed from the exterior offices where it had started to the interior hallway were they now stood. The smoke was thick and dark now, warning the pair that time was running short. Elbowing Clint, Steve switched the headlamp on his helmet on, flooding the hallway with light. Clint did the same and they continued on, staying low to the ground. Steve stayed in front, checking the floor with the handle of his ax as they progressed.

Neither had the luxury of conversation now, and they continued their search in silence, punctuated by calls into the offices as they passed, alerting any trapped or hidden civilians that help was near.

"I've got one," Clint called, ducking into a small office on the right-hand side of the hallway. Steve followed, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings as Clint pulled the crying woman up from under a desk. She was coughing harshly, the smoke wreaking havoc on her unprotected lungs.

Steve took her other arm and helped Clint guide her out into the hallway where she seemed immediately steadier on her feet. Hesitating, he looked up the hallway. There were only three doors left to search. Thor and Natasha had already cleared the rest of the floor.

He glanced down to check his air supply. Two bars. He had approximately ten minutes left.

"Get her out of here," Steve yelled to Clint through the roar of flames, "I'll finish this hallway!"

Clint hesitated. "You call Thor for backup," he yelled back, "don't do anything stupid!"

"Go!" Steve ordered, pointing back towards the staircase.

Clint pulled the woman's arm over his shoulders and headed back the way they had come.

Licking dry lips behind his mask, Steve crouched down and headed for the next door. He ensured that it was clear, and moved on.

The next room was a long, narrow boardroom, the walls lined with expensive-looking screens. It was also rimmed in flames; chunks of the north wall had already crumbled in, igniting sections of carpet and decorative drapes.

"Fire department!" Steve yelled into the inferno, "Is anyone in here?"

He almost pulled the door closed. He almost moved on. He wasn't sure why he paused, but in the next breath he saw... _something._ Or someone.

Moving further in through the doorway, Steve frowned into the smoke, trying to make sense of the blurry figure that stood, seemingly unaffected in the falling ash. By the size of the shadow, the stranger seemed to be wearing some sort of heavy suit—likely flame-proof, if his ease in the roaring flames was anything to go by.

"What the—" Steve muttered to himself, taking a step forward. "Sir? Are you hurt—"

Another step, and the smoke cleared. Steve was met with his own reflection in a darkened faceplate, and that was as close as he got. The figure whirled and bolted away from Steve, towards a door engulfed in flames on the far side of the room. He dropped a gas can as he ran.

"Stop!" Steve bellowed uselessly, breaking into a run to follow.

There was that side of him that was a firefighter that wanted the man to stop because he was in danger; because Steve knew it was his job to protect human life, and leave the decision between guilt and innocence to the law.

But he hadn't always been a firefighter. Even most of his own department was unaware of where he'd begun—where his old self had died, or his new self had been born. They would never hear from his lips the horror stories of Afghan trenches, Iraqi suicide bombers and IED's on the roads of Tehran. They would never comprehend how easily he could rush into the flames of a burning building... because to his mind the fire was a predictable, obvious enemy. It hid no children with automatic weapons, it didn't offer a friendly smile to get close enough to push the self-destruct button. Fire was fire—fluid and destructive and something he knew how to fight.

That side of him—the side of him that had spent eight years doling out justice through split second decisions and the gray haze that made the rules in a warzone—that side of him wanted to bring the arsonist down. And he didn't know for certain who the man was, but he was willing to bet anything he was the culprit they were looking for. This fire hadn't started on his own—he'd suspected as much from the ground; Clint had voiced his suspicions. Steve was sure of it now.

He needed to bring him down; it was the decision of a heartbeat. Whatever it took.

He dropped his axe, every nerve kicking into overdrive as he sprinted for the door, the weight of his gear and airpac forgotten.

The arsonist reached the door, and pulled it open, releasing trapped oxygen into the room. The fire surged with new fervor as it was able to breathe and feed itself. Steve reached out for the door. He was only steps away.

Without warning, the room let out a roar as the gaseous layer near the ceiling burst into flames, igniting with enough force to knock him to the ground. He rolled into the door, covering his head with one hand as ceiling tile and ash began to shower down from overhead.

"Get the police on the exits," Steve called into his radio from the ground, even as his free hand grasped for the door handle uselessly, "I think I found our arsonist. He's headed for the stairs!" He cursed as he shoved his shoulder against the jammed—or locked—doorknob. "Door's blocked, I can't follow."

"Get after him, Rogers!" Fury's voice returned, indicating he'd made it downstairs to the trucks and fallen back into his natural role as chief and coordinator of his crews. "That's what your ax is for."

"Working on it," Steve hauled himself up. The carpet beneath his feet sagged, the floor soft and unstable as the room below degraded.

Cursing softly to himself, Steve staggered back, retrieving his ax from the carpet where he'd dropped to to run after the arsonist. With it's help and any manner of luck, it wouldn't take him long to get through the door and after the arsonist.

"The floor is unstable—" he began to say into his radio, hefting his ax for the first blow.

It never had the chance to land. He had a split second of warning as the entire floor beneath his feet simply _shifted_; softened, and gave way completely.

He didn't even have time to breathe before he was falling.

"_Agh_!" A cry of pain was torn from his lips involuntarily as he fell two stories down through the conference hall. One edge of the elevated stage broke his fell, catching his left shoulder with all the force of a hammer.

_Fifteen seconds, _he was left thinking to himself even as his head spun. _Get moving, fifteen seconds..._

It seemed to take a lot longer than fifteen seconds—minutes at least, in his head—but he finally managed to pry the thick chunks of ceiling off his chest and roll over, keeping his bypass alarm from going off and sending out the high-pitched alarm that would warn his department that he was injured or unresponsive.

He squinted up at the ceiling above him. Through the demolished floor of the room above, he could see that the room had flashed. In a way, the fall had saved him from a worse fate.

"Talk to me, Rogers." Fury's voice was distant and garbled from his radio. "Are you through?"

"Not exactly," Steve gasped, his chest and shoulder aching hard enough to make breathing difficult. Talking was a new agony altogether. "Floor gave out."

Fury didn't bother asking if Steve was safe; he would assume that he was if he was moving and communicating. So maybe Steve had left out the little detail about falling through to the conference hall, dark and hazy with smoke, but that was just a detail.

"Hey! Is anyone out there? _Hey_!" Someone was yelling from beyond the wreckage; a man's voice.

Steve was aching, sore, and disoriented. But he was still alive, and that meant he had a job to do. Remembering this gave him new focus, bringing him back to the present and his first priority: to make sure everyone was out and safe.

"Call out," Steve wheezed through his mask, wincing as his airpac shifted and his shoulder screamed in protest. He levered himself upright by using the wreckage of the stage to support his weight. His ax had landed nearby, but the idea of picking it up was agonizing.

Leaving it, he instead shuffled slowly in the direction of the voice he had heard, shoving aside overturned chairs and fallen beams. "Fire department," he called the familiar mantra, his voice stronger as he found his breath again. "Call out!"

"Here!" Came the voice again. "Ah, you finally made it... Just... take your time, buddy. Everything's cool here..."

Wading through the wreckage of the collapsed ceiling, Steve wasn't able to make out the owner of the voice until he was almost on top of him—like the portion of the half-collapsed stage that appeared to be pinning the man's leg.

"Fire department," he repeated stiffly, his head still spinning from his fall as he knelt clumsily beside the victim. "We're going to get you out of here..."

A precursory glance around the hall showed that it was empty of civilians, but debris was still falling from overhead. He didn't have time to call rescue in; he was going to have to find a way to free the man and get him out before something larger fell and trapped them both.

Steve looked up into his companion's face. Words of comfort and reassurance died on his lips, however, as he met the eyes of none other than the man who had, only minutes before, all but condemned his department to a slow death...

Tony Stark.

**.**

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**Author's Notes**: (Steve always ends up falling in my stories, doesn't he?) In any case, allow me to answer a few FAQ's I can already see in my future.

Yes, I am a firefighter. No, I have no idea how a super-scaled department like those in NYC would function. Allow me a little room for creativity here, I'm doing my best. My department is volunteer-based and nowhere near as massive as those in New York. I may have been a little inspired by Chicago Fire and decide to steal a detail or two from them. Allegedly.

I am still working on Trainwreck Hearts, so... never fear. Just working out a little bit of writer's block with this one. I don't anticipate this story being very long, either. Maybe 3-4 chapters.

If you guys get confused about who is who, or who is on what truck/squad etc I can post a roster for you. As for the unknown names, Dane Whitman is Black Knight; Luke Charles is an alias of Black Panther from the comics. Hank Pym is Ant-Man and Janet Pym is Wasp from the comics. Sam Wilson is Falcon. Gyrich (Police Chief) is also comics book material, for those who have only seen the movie. Logan (James) Howlett is Wolverine, obviously... I may be bringing in more characters from the Marvel universe to fill up my rosters, but who the hell really knows.

If I need to tell you who Peter Parker is, your Marvel Fanclub Card is hereby revoked. Permanently.

As you have more questions, feel free to review or PM me and I'll try to answer them as we go.


	2. Ignition

**.**

**C2: Ignition**

**.**

Thought stopped.

Something inside of Steve stumbled, faltered, hesitated. More emotions were warring for control of his soul than he had the capacity to recognize, and his first instinct in the face of such a tumult was to shut down completely.

So he did.

"Are—are you hurt?" He managed to ask; managed beyond all reason to forge ahead, operating on training and instinct and the basic need to _get out of here alive. _

He managed to forge ahead, even reeling from the surreal atmosphere of the situation—aching and disoriented, ash falling like dark snow from above, a massive room lit by the glow from above... and dark, familiar eyes meeting his own. A man he knew only from television, staring him in the face. A man who had the ability and the motivation to do such damage to his life without a second thought.

The billionaire coughed out a mirthless laugh and dropped his head back against the tile floor below, blinking away the sweat that streamed down his face. "Oh, no. Pinned by a fucking wall, but otherwise, I'm just dandy. You?"

Undaunted by the sarcasm, Steve turned his attention to the smashed portion of stage that held the billionaire immobile.

"I'm going to try to move it," he monotoned, still running on auto pilot, still trying to assess the ever-worsening situation. "Cover your head."

Cursing, the brunette did as instructed, pulling his forearms over his head as Steve crouched, set his shoulder into the wood, and heaved with all of his might.

Letting out a shout that was as much from adrenaline as the sudden pain that spiked, white-hot and breathtaking down his spine, Steve was able to heft the wreckage up and several feet to the left before his strength gave out and he dropped to his knees. His shoulder was throbbing in earnest now, sending little pulses of warning through his shaking limbs. Whatever the adrenaline had tried to convince him of before, he had definitely not made it through that fall unscathed.

Stark was cursing again but moving, pulling himself slowly backwards and away from the wreck that had held him trapped.

Trying to catch his breath, Steve pried himself up. His airpac was making him dizzy, flashing yellow in his peripheral vision to warn him that his air supply was about to become a critical issue. He should have been headed out already; should have headed for the door while he still knew he had time. He swayed on his feet for a moment; disguised it by reaching for the two-by-four that still lay partially over the billionaire.

"Can you walk?" Steve asked when he'd managed to clear the rest of the debris and form something of a narrow path towards the door, praying for a little luck. He ducked his head as a loud crack resounded throughout the hall, followed by a fresh shower of ash.

"Of course, Of course. That leg bit was all just for show."

Another day, Steve might have snapped something back at the other man—something about cooperating long enough to see them both out alive—but the mere idea seemed to drain his energy now. The fact of the matter was that the fire overhead was roaring, the ceiling collapsing, and his air running low. The temperature was climbing and they both needed to get out of there... fast.

"Up," he commanded, leaning down to pull the brunette's arm over his good shoulder. "Come on. You've gotta help me out here."

Grumbling and cursing, Stark did.

A fragment of plaster dropped from above, lighting the hall with a fountain of sparks. Steve entertained the brief hope that it was just another warning sign, urging them on and out of the ever-rising heat, but it was not to be.

The room groaned around them like a wounded beast, a sound that seemed to amplify with every passing moment. The walls were igniting, flammable materials combusting with loud whooshes of air.

They had mere minutes.

"Come on, come on," Steve kept up the mantra for his own sake as much as for Tony's.

Beneath his turnout coat, the blond's shirt was soaked with sweat and his arm shook with the exertion of continuing to bear weight through the damage that had already been done. But it would hold... for no other reason, perhaps, than that it simply had to.

Steve moved just slightly in front of his unwilling passenger, kicking at the smaller pieces of debris in an attempt to clear a path toward the door. The wooden floor, once beautiful and polished, was warped and creaking now. The remains of dinner and wine crunched beneath his feet, decorations and singed tablecloths obstructing his path. He stepped over the strewn contents of a woman's purse, tubes of lipstick rolling away in front of his boots.

"Hey buddy," Stark was saying, coughing, batting at Steve's arm like a boxer tapping out of a fight. "_Hey_. You might wanna—"

It became obvious what Stark had been trying to warn him about an instant later as the long overturned table beside them burst into flames, the draped tablecloth and spilled alcohol inhaling the fire into a small inferno. It reached out towards them, licking and dancing in deceptively graceful little tendrils of flame.

Steve jerked his burden away from the flames, hurrying the billionaire on past the immediate danger. At almost the same moment, his respirator let out a warning tone and began to vibrate against his jaw. The low air pressure warning was a dangerous sign. He should have been clear by now. He should have been _out._

Things went downhill from there.

Stark caught his bad leg on something. He let out a yell and slipped in the firefighter's grasp.

The blond didn't think; didn't need to. Instinct took over and he tightened his grip, sacrificing his balance to throw both arms around the billionaire and keep him from going down.

A blinding, white-hot bolt of lightening, spiking out from his shoulder and down through his chest was his reward. There was an audible _pop_ as something gave out and nausea rolled through his body like a tidal wave.

He couldn't completely stifle the cry of agony that was ripped from his lips. It was a sound muted by his mask, together with the roaring blaze and Stark's many colorful adjectives. He bit it off quickly, knowing it didn't matter. But he needed to at least appear strong. He was the one in control here. He was the one here to rescue people. And the victim, whether it was Tony Stark or someone whose name he would never know, needed to have complete confidence in his ability to do that.

Standing frozen for a long series of seconds, Steve ground his teeth and fought against his body's every instinct to drop to the floor. Stark was struggling in his grip, trying to right himself but managing only to make his rescuer's job almost impossible.

Somewhere in the distant fog of sensation he could hear Fury's voice coming from his radio, and if he'd thought about it he really should have answered. Fury was telling him to get out; demanding an instant retreat because the room was going to ignite and they didn't have long. They didn't have the seconds he needed to stand there, to recover and simply breathe.

Fury was calling for him. Over, and over.

But to reach for his radio and answer would mean letting go of Tony. And if he dropped the billionaire now, Steve's shaking muscles and throbbing arm would not be able to haul him upright again. Of that he was certain.

"Up!" Steve roared to the almost immobile man hanging on his arm, sending little rivers of fire screaming up the injured limb. "_Get up._"

Steve didn't know where the strength came from, because his adrenaline was gone and his eyes stung with sweat and he felt like doing nothing more than dropping to the floor and hitting his bypass alarm and waiting for someone to come haul him out.

He didn't.

Instead he hefted his passenger's dead weight up in his arms, set his shoulder hard into a tuxedo-clad stomach, and took one agonizing step after the other towards the door. He didn't have the mental capacity to flinch as the ceiling rained down around them, couldn't focus long enough to worry that they were seconds away from death themselves. He could faintly glimpse the strobes of ambulances and police cars appearing sporadically through the thick smoke, and they became brighter with every step he took towards those massive double doors. His radio was still screaming; he knew.

He could hear only his own breaths. He could feel only the labored rise and fall of Stark's chest against his neck.

And then a roar of smoke closed in around them and something massive fell behind him and he was stepping off that polished floor. He stumbled just slightly as his footing changed, and he stepped out into the clean air.

The floodlights set up outside the building were blinding, and after a few moments of blinking owlishly upwards Steve realized it wasn't just the emergency floodlights, set up by the truck crew. The press from inside the hall had only doubled in the wake of this new development, and the cameras going off from every side were like strobe lights, disorienting and unfamiliar.

He was outside. He was safe.

The body wedged against his shoulder coughed and began to move, and that was all it took to upset his fragile balance. Steve sagged to one knee, half-dropping the wheezing billionaire to land mostly on his feet. Stark was suddenly surrounded by a wave of EMS personnel, whisked away to safety.

And a familiar black helmet, complete with a singed white falcon decal on the front, was suddenly in front of him, blocking out those damn flashing lights and cameras. Clint. Good old Clint.

Before Steve had even finished recognizing his friend Barton was in action, moving, talking to him in low, steady tones, sliding off his friend's helmet and mask, shutting off his screaming air tank. Steve pulled in a long, tortured breath as the crisp night air hit his lungs like ice.

"Talk to me, Steve," Clint was repeating, working at the heavy material of the blond's turnout coat, pulling it away from his neck and chest to help the stunned firefighter breathe. "Come on, you're okay. Just breathe." Satisfied that Steve was not in immediate danger of asphyxiating, Clint turned to bellow over his shoulder and call for a paramedic.

Steve's good hand was shaking violently as he lifted it to wipe the sweat from his forehead; Clint reached out without being asked and help work the heavy black gloves off his hands.

Bruce was the first to Steve's side, perhaps because he was the only EMT on scene not wholly preoccupied with their celebrity victim. He frowned at the paleness of Steve's face, taking in the glazed eyes and harsh tremors that wracked his exposed hands.

"Where are you hurt, Rogers?" Bruce cut right to the chase, holding Clint back when he moved to help Steve stand.

It took a moment of dazed, blinking stupidity for Steve to even remember. "I might have sprained my shoulder," he rasped, leaning hard on his knee and allowing his head to fall forward for a brief moment. The simple admission seemed to bring the pain rushing back, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of the sea of faces surrounding him.

"Okay, okay," Bruce soothed, back in full professional swing. Steve distantly noted that he'd exchanged his black bow tie for a dark blue EMS jacket somewhere in the melee. If not for the pressed black slacks, he almost looked the part now. "Is that the worst of it? Which arm is hurt? Let's get you over to the rig."

Managing bare monosyllables in answer, Steve tried his best to be helpful as Clint hauled him to his feet and under Banner's supervision, assisted him over to an unoccupied ambulance. The nearest rig was surrounded by a small swarm of EMT's and cameramen, jockeying for a chance to be a part of the commotion that always seemed to surround Tony Stark.

As they passed, Steve's exhausted gaze came to rest, by pure chance, on the dark-haired man sitting upright, looking haggard and irritated in the back of the ambulance. Dark brown eyes met his own, but the expression on Stark's face was not one that Steve was able to interpret. Gratitude, maybe? It could have been resentment, or irritation or fear, or nothing at all.

That was it. It was probably nothing at all, Steve decided as he was eased down to sit on a stretcher and Clint and Bruce carefully stripped him of his turnout coat.

He allowed them to work, exchanging words and tools and strapping a blood pressure cuff to his good arm. His eyelids fluttered shut as he concentrated on simply staying upright, not allowing his crashing adrenaline and weary body to lull him into too deep a comfort.

It didn't mean anything, he told himself, because this was just another fire; just another night.

Odds were good that he would never see Tony Stark again.

**.**

The odds were, apparently, not on his side this time.

Or maybe they were. He really couldn't tell, at this particular point.

Bruce had quickly discovered the problem with Steve's arm... namely, that he had manged to very badly dislocate his shoulder and cause no small amount of damage to the surrounding tendons with the repeated strain that had followed. After a painful relocation of the joint he was packed away into an immobility sling and given two large bottles of water to consume before he was allowed to stand again. Under these conditions he would be spared the indignity of a trip to the hospital, but Bruce made it clear that he was in no condition to finish out his shift.

Fury had a few words for him, too—many of them had to do with dressing him down for attempting a search without a partner, on low air and without communicating with command. Steve managed to inform him that he had just finished falling through a floor and may not have been thinking clearly, and that at least gave the big man pause. He backed off with instructions for Bruce to patch the captain back together, murmuring something about hearing it all in Steve's official report. As far as Fury went, that almost counted as affectionate.

It wasn't until the next morning that the full impact of the fire really began to sink in. Bruce had given in after a certain amount of cajoling and allowed Steve to hit his own thin cot in the room adjoining the bunk hall instead of heading home, but only after Clint jokingly remarked that the blond was in no condition to drive.

Clint was covering for his friend and Steve knew it; he met the lieutenant's green eyes in silent thanks. Clint was maybe the only person on the his crew who knew how much Steve hated going home to his own dismal apartment.

In Steve's mind, Firehouse Nine was his real home. And despite the frequent alarms that kept them on their toes at all hours of the day and night during their twenty-four hours shifts, it was also the only place he ever got any real rest.

So it was that he woke to the muted chaos of C shift coming in, always a full hour before B shift left so updates could be made, officers informed of any changes, and task lists managed.

He lay on his cot for a moment, eyes closed, and contemplated sleeping longer—god knew he could have—but his mind was quick to catch him up on the still-hazy events of the night before. That was all it took to pull him to his feet, catching his breath as his arm creaked in protest. He pulled a fleece sports jacket with his squad insignia on over his good arm, leaving it hanging awkwardly over his immobilized left arm and sling. It would have to do, he decided regretfully. He pulled open the plexiglass door that separated his small sleeping quarters from the long row of cots in the main bunk room, and shuffled wearily out towards the noise.

He was taken aback by the sheer chaos that greeted him in the mess hall.

Several of his crew were laughing as corks went flying; champagne fizzled and spilled as it was poured into approximately two dozen plastic flutes set out on one of the tables. Both TV's were on—loudly—and C shift was adding to the ruckus as they were caught up on the night's events.

"Where'd this come from?" Steve asked, bewildered, voice still scratchy and hoarse from the night's abuse.

Your new best friend," Loki grinned at him, raising a plastic flute and taking a sip, "and apparently he only springs for the expensive stuff."

"Are you old enough to be drinking that?" Natasha demanded as Peter Parker reached for a glass.

"Are you stupid enough to be drinking it?" Wilson countered from a few feet away, swatting away a hand in disgust when he was offered a glass. "I won't touch any shit that comes from that asshole, Stark. Last night didn't change his policies, but maybe I'm the only one who remembers that."

If the murmurs of disapproval were any indication, Wilson was not the only one who remembered. It was fairly obvious that a good number of the crew were shunning the offerings from Stark Industries, while others only looked like they wanted to—but free food and champagne was free food and champagne. Few of them could resist the temptation.

Thor was laughing loudly with Logan, because he seemed to be the only one in the whole station who actually liked the angry Canadian, and Whitman was popping another bottle open. Hank and Janet Pym were already on their second glass, sharing good-natured toasts, and the rest of the crew seemed transfixed by the nearest television.

Steve turned his attention to the screen in kind, feeling like he was sleepwalking as he watched frenzied, shaky cell-phone clips alternate across the left half of the screen, the only documentation of the earliest moments of the Baxter Building Fire. This footage quickly segued into the steadier, higher-resolution film from the news cameras, showing the flames licking from the second story. Presumably, this footage had come from the news crews that had made it outside after the initial evacuation. As the camera panned, Steve could catch brief glimpses of his own truck parked across the street; could catch glimpses of Peter and Logan pulling hose and hooking it up to the nearest hydrant. Steve and Clint had disappeared inside long ago, and the captain's only thought was that he had never logged the loss of that stupid ax he'd been carrying.

The newscaster was narrating in excited overtones, pointing out local celebrities and politicians as they were evacuated, keeping up her running commentary as she hypothesized on the cause of the fire and constantly asked the cameraman if he'd seen Stark come out yet.

It always seemed surreal through the eyes of a stranger, Steve thought, mystified as he bore retrospective witness to the growing panic that spread through the crowd when it became obvious that Stark was still inside. From this view, it became clear that the fire on the second story had spread, becoming fully involved room by room, and smoke was beginning to seep out of the third story in places, too.

"Sure different from this angle, huh?" Luke Charles remarked from Steve's side, shaking his head. Steve didn't have the energy to answer, still transfixed by the footage. It was not, apparently, the first time that most of the B shift crew members had seen it, and they were far more interested in the champagne and the gift baskets that had presumably accompanied it.

The film from the night before was occasionally inset into the corner while the morning news hosts commented on the night's events, their conversation rife with such expected phrases as "the cause of the fire is still being investigated" and "at this time, we do not have confirmed press releases from the Fire or Police departments."

Still aching, exhausted and half-asleep, it took a few beats too long for Steve to connect the dots and begin to to piece together the other things they were saying... namely, that Stark had been pulled from the wreckage and flame by an injured firefighter.

Steve blanched, unable to help stiffening as he watched footage of himself staggering out of the thick smoke. He looked drunken, barely able to stay upright, his mask fogged with his own breath, Stark gracelessly settled across his shoulder. He watched himself as he fell to one knee, and after that the cameras had eyes only for Stark. Thank god for little mercies.

"Not sure if I should congratulate you or ask you what the hell you were thinking," Clint grinned, approaching to gently nudge Steve's shoulder and offer him a plastic flute. "You're one crazy son of a bitch sometimes, you know that?"

Feeling a little sick to his stomach for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom, Steve waved him away weakly. Clint shrugged and helped himself to the glass.

"You alright?" Barton pressed, clearly reading the distress in Steve's features. He kept his voice quiet and confidential, his eyes still fixed on the television. He knew Steve hated to make a scene, and as always, did his best to respect that.

At this particular moment, it seemed that the whole city was more than intent to make a scene... at the center of which was not only Tony Stark, but also Steve Rogers. Thank god they didn't have his name yet; thank god they didn't know anything about him. He wondered how long that could possibly last.

"I just—yeah—" The blond fumbled, unable to really elucidate his chaotic emotions. "Um. This is just... all this is a lot."

"Damn straight." Clint took a long, deep drink of the champagne, clearly wishing it was beer but unwilling to be too picky when it came to free alcohol. "I don't think you've seen the worst of it either. Fury's been fending off reporters all night."

"Don't those bloodsuckers ever sleep?" Natasha piped in dangerously as she heard the comment, holding an untouched glass of champagne and standing a little too close to Bruce to avoid suspicion. The EMT's hand came to rest soothingly on her shoulder as he sensed her anger, because at that particular moment tact really didn't seem to be the most important thing on anyone's mind.

"I should probably go talk to him," Steve tried not to let it sound like an excuse to retreat from the noise and laughter and conversation, somehow more disorienting than a raging inferno.

"Good plan," Clint commented vaguely to no-one in particular, shaking his head as he watched the rescue play on repeat.

Steve shouldered his way around the clusters of crew-members gathered in the mess hall and made his way out to the wide main hall. He almost rethought his entire plan when he spied another small suit-clad mob gathered at the farthest end, near the glass front doors in the lobby, but it really seemed like too late to back out now. Instead he kept his head down and walked quickly forward, ducking into Fury's office on the right before he attracted too much attention. Their receptionist wouldn't let the reporters through those doors without direct permission from the chief, and hopefully, that wouldn't be given anytime soon.

Saying a silent prayer of thanks that he had managed to avoid that particular encounter and finally attain some peace, Steve turned to face the familiar, dark oak desk that the Fire Chief of Firehouse Nine usually occupied.

Instead he met a handsome face standing too close for comfort, took in slicked dark hair and breathtaking brown eyes.

The Tony Stark of today was immaculate, looking fit for television in a pressed suit and sleek black tie. This Stark, the man standing just inside the door of Fury's office, was suave and polished and put-together, looking to be in complete control of the atmosphere despite the small row of stitches above his eyebrow, the light brace on his leg, and the expensive-looking cane on which he leaned.

The Tony Stark of today, much like the Tony Stark of last night, had in those piercing brown eyes the complete and unchallenged power to stop Steve's breath in in his lungs and his heart in his chest.

"Rogers, you're up," Fury didn't sound as surprised as he probably meant to. "I wasn't going to wake you, but... since you're here, you have a visitor. I hardly think I need to introduce him."

"Captain Rogers," Stark stepped forward, and Steve was distantly glad to note that he didn't really seem to need the support of his cane at all, "I never got the chance to properly thank you last night. Or even say a word to you that didn't include expletives, as I recall."

A hand was extended, and then Steve's good arm was in a firm, warm grip. He had no control over himself at this moment; for the life of him he couldn't even remember reaching out for the billionaire's hand.

If he was completely honest, in fact, Steve was struck dumb, utterly overwhelmed by the moment. Tony Stark stood before him, real and warm and breathtaking in a way that suggested TV cameras did him no justice at all. It didn't seem to matter that he'd been in the same space as the man only ten or twelve hours before. In fact that event seemed as if it had occurred in another decade, another reality even... in fact it seemed entirely likely that Steve had only been dreaming, and it had not really occurred at all.

"I meant to find you last night after I was checked out, but you know—those damn paramedics broke out the book," Stark was still talking, still rambling on with his silver tongue and charming smile. "I think they were pretty determined to find something wrong with me, actually."

"I'm glad to see that you're—" Steve hesitated, fumbling for a smoothness he had never really possessed, "—looking well. Unharmed, that is. Mostly."

The blond's half-coherent fumbling only served to make Stark grin wider, as if he found something more than usually amusing about Steve's sad attempts to keep up with the powerful brunette's wordplay.

For a brief, ridiculous moment, Steve almost felt outnumbered—much like he had found himself a beginner playing a game of chess against a grand master. When it came to their use of words, he supposed the analogy wasn't entirely off the mark.

"Anyway," Stark went on, hardly looking like a man who had been moments from death the night before, "I took the liberty of sending a few gift baskets in for your crew."

"I saw that, and they really appreciate it, Mr. Stark," Steve felt he had finally lit on a subject he could address without sounding like a complete idiot, even if it meant leaving out the detail that more than one of his crew had refused to partake of the gifts strictly on principle—the man who sent them was on their blacklist, and no convenient fire or expensive gift basket was going to be enough to erase that grudge.

"Good, very good," the brunette breezed on. "Least I could do. For now. And please, by all means—call me Tony."

Something inside of Steve's chest did a funny little skip at that, a sensation that was as unexpected as it was inappropriate. Fighting not to blush at his own idiocy only made him more aware of it—including the fact that he was still wearing very little more than sweatpants and socks and a white t-shirt, his hair mussed and his eyes dark with exhaustion. Not exactly the new first impression he would have gone for with proper warning, and as if reading his mind, Stark was quick to jump on the blond's insecurities.

"How's that arm?" The billionaire asked suddenly, his direct gaze so bright and intense that Steve felt, ridiculously, that he almost had to fight not to wilt under it.

"Fine," he answered mechanically, and this time he was sure that he blushed. The attention was not what he was used to and he was desperate to deflect it. In his current state, that didn't seem likely, and so he glanced around his charismatic guest to Fury, trying to get a feel for what was going on in his superior's head.

Fury met his eyes and nodded once, directing the blond's attention back to Stark. "Mr. Stark has a rather interesting proposition for you," the big man drawled, and his ease somehow only worried Steve.

"Ah yes, yes." Tony perked up as if he had just remembered, "I know this is all quite sudden, and of course you don't need to commit to anything right away—but that's the main reason I stopped by. I want to hold a dinner for you."

"Me?" Steve blurted dumbly before he could remind himself not to sound too much like an idiot in front of the billionaire, who despite all that he had been through, seemed to be completely unshaken and quite ready to move on with his life.

"Yes," Stark nodded simply, and only the barest quirk of his lips betrayed his amusement as he watched the firefighter flounder for a grip on the situation. "To thank you for all that you've done. You did save my life, after all, Captain. In honor of your entire crew, but in particular... you."

"Oh, no," Steve held up his good hand placatingly, taking a physical step back towards the door. "Mr. Stark—"

"Tony."

"Uh. Tony... I was just doing my job. No more and no less, and I assure you, you owe me nothing."

"See, you're wrong," Tony took a step forward, maintaining the burning intensity, not allowing Steve to retreat. "I owe you my life. Let's be honest here: it was a miracle I made it out of that mess and you..." he held out a hand to indicate the blond, "you were that miracle. This is the least I can do. I insist."

Feeling cornered, Steve lifted his eyes to Fury for help.

Smiling amicably, an expression unfamiliar to his features, Fury shrugged. "I don't see why you shouldn't accept, Rogers," the Chief went on, sounding suspiciously like had had an ulterior motive for the whole thing. If he did, Steve couldn't for the life of him discern it. "Mr. Stark has made a kind gesture by reaching out to our firehouse today."

"This is my private line," Stark was saying as he scribbled on the back of a business card, nonplussed by the awkward atmosphere he seemed to have sparked in the small office. He didn't hesitate when Steve didn't immediately take it, but reached out and tucked it into his sling. "I want you to think about it, and give me a call. I don't want to pressure you into anything, of course. But you know there are a hell of a lot of people out there right now who are dying to meet you."

Steve must have visibly blanched, because Tony laughed at him. And it might have been that sound, more than any charming words and dazzling smiles that really told Steve that he couldn't refuse.

"Jesus, kid, it's just a dinner," Tony reached out and clapped Steve on the good shoulder, the heat of his hand burning through the thin jacket. "I swear I'm not going to stick you up there in front of a firing squad. Just a simple little banquet to say 'thank you' to the guy who pulled my ass out of the hotseat."

Steve tried to smile back; tried to look like he meant it, but the expression was feeble and delayed. He wasn't sure why Stark had this effect on him, but it made his palms clammy and his heart beat too fast and _damnit_ he'd faced down much worse than this with barely a flinch. He was ashamed of his own reaction—or lack thereof—and if he pulled it together long enough to answer the smiling billionaire with a complete sentence, he might be able to salvage this disaster and walk away with some shred of dignity intact.

"Chief Fury, thank you for your time," Stark was nodding respectfully to the other man, and then Steve was back in his cross-hairs. "And you," he was touching again, one hand moving from Steve's shoulder to grip his good hand again, strong and warm, "get yourself some rest. You look like hell. Gotta have you looking pretty for that, dinner, eh?"

Forget dignity, Steve decided quickly. He'd be lucky to get away from Stark with his heart intact.

And just like that, the brunette had breezed out of the office and away into the dim morning.

"What was that?" Steve demanded of Fury as soon as the door shut behind Stark, trying not to sound accusatory and failing miserably. "You really think it's a good idea to let him host a dinner for us?"

"Calm down, Rogers." Fury eased himself down into the chair behind his desk, gesturing for the blond to do likewise. "You're not looking at this the right way. And by the way, Stark is right. You do look like hell."

Steve sighed and tilted his head in concession, unable to really argue. He reluctantly took a seat and ran a heavy hand over his eyes, trying in vain to smooth the worst of his tousled bed-head without the aid of a mirror. He was really wishing he'd taken the time to make a pit-stop before padding out into the station in socks and pajamas.

If he'd known what he'd be facing at eight o' clock in the morning, he certainly would have thought twice about getting out of bed at all.

"How _is_ that arm of yours?" Fury asked after giving the blond a moment to try to pull himself together, "no bullshit, this time."

"Hurts like hell?" Steve tried to write it off as a joke; it fell miserably flat. Primarily because it was entirely true.

"Get Bruce to look you over before you head home," the chief sighed, leaning back in his chair. "If he even suspects there's more to it than the swelling, I want you headed straight to the ER. You got it?"

Steve nodded tiredly, wishing his exhausted brain would catch up the seemingly chaotic events of the forty minutes he'd already been awake.

"As I was saying," Fury leaned forward and brushed a stack of paperwork out of the way of his elbows. "You're going to accept this gracious offer and let that man put this dinner on for you. You're going to put your best foot forward and court Stark's good graces in whatever way you have to."

"Why?" Steve asked, bewildered, and tried not to read too much into Fury's unintentional imagery.

"Because you—" Fury pointed directly at the the blond, "are currently the only man in this city who has a break here. Last night was a disaster, in a lot of ways, really, but it gave us one thing... a chance. A chance to knock a little sense into that thick, stupid, money-addled brain of Stark's."

"What are you saying?" Steve frowned, even though he was afraid he knew exactly what Fury was saying... even if Steve was probably the last person who could see such a plan to fruition.

"I'm saying you might be our little flicker of hope, kid," Fury smiled mirthlessly. "Because you might be the only one who can open Tony Stark's eyes to how much this city needs us."

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Questions? Comments? Suggestions? Have at me!

Thank you a million times over to reviewers **SirVacuumThe3rd**, **arienperry**, **hinkirin**, **Clack-WWBM-Lover**, and **Tacpebs**. This chapter is for you.


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